


Screwed Up

by hobert



Series: The Gregor Powers Mysteries [2]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-02
Updated: 2015-04-02
Packaged: 2018-03-20 20:25:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3663816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobert/pseuds/hobert
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richie and Gregor are living together peacefully, until a series of beheadings intrudes on their lives! Can the pair survive a headhunter in their midst?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Screwed Up

**Author's Note:**

> This story came about from a personal challenge between myself and another author, based on a multi-fandom zine that was looking for stories. All the stories in the zine were to use the plot device of the switched heads. The zine never was printed, but I ended up writing the story. We also ended up looking at a challenge for a Sentinel/Pro's crossover, and we both immediately decided that Blair Sandburg was Raymond Doyle's son, which she ended up doing. So each of us ended up fulfilling half the challenge. (Although in my mind, I added in Due South and Highlander, and tied it together with Bodie being Immortal, the obvious "Frasier as a Sentinel" and trapped them all in Chicago in a snow storm while the downtown banks were being robbed. Hilarity and misadventure ensued -- can you imagine Frasier, Richie and Blair together on a dogsled? Vecchio and Duncan?)

  
**It was a dark and stormy night.**   
  
Richie Ryan, aka "Allyson Dupree", stared at the computer screen. He saw the words, black on white, and watched the curser blink, blink, blink, as it waited for more input. But Richie's mind was as blank as the rest of the screen, no image distinct enough to make a lasting impression. Blink, blink, blink. Just like his eyes.   
  
He tried inserting himself into the scenario he was struggling to build. A young man, dark blond hair. Who held himself with the readiness of a fighter and the ease of a confident person. A sword-welding Immortal, ready to take on any challenge.   
  
**Lightning would flash over his pale, handsome features, his ice blue eyes reflecting the savagery of the storm. The wind should be tearing at his loose, billowy shirt, plastering the cloth over his muscular form.** Richie breathed in, inflating his chest, picturing a manly pose. Nope. Still wasn't working. Maybe....   
  
**The stranger, Count Gregorvich, strolled through the door, his entrance bringing with it the forceful winds, chilled by Autumn. He stood framed in the doorway, a wiry snippet of a man, decked out totally in black leather. His lips curled in a cruel smile as he smoothly pulled off his riding gloves. Under his short spiky hair, dark eyes scanned the crowd, searching for his soon-to-be prey....**  
  
Not accomplishing much besides arousing himself, Richie stopped trying and sat there, content to breathe and feel. He missed Gregor, much too much. A hand brushed across his bare stomach, fingers splayed as they ran through the curly hair on his torso. Thinking of Gregor was too painful right now, when he was horny and needy.   
  
His hand reached up to tease a nipple, his other sliding down to rest over the growing bulge in his running shorts. He reacted with a moan as he rubbed his neglected shaft. Even though Gregor had only been gone a week, not having sex was driving the young Immortal crazy. As much as he needed to finish this manuscript, he needed release from his self-imposed torment.   
  
His fingers traced along the throbbing cock, straining against the material of his shorts. A wet spot formed, right at the tip, as Richie threw his head back and closed his eyes, trying hard to imagine the leather-clad Gregor possessing the hands stroking his body.   
  
"Oh, yes," he moaned, pinching a crinkled tit as he bucked his hips, driving his rod into his hand. A part of his mind, intent on his story, silently warned that satisfaction now would only make writing more difficult. He needed that desperation and want, so that he could translate it to his novel.   
  
Aching, a groan on his lips, he raised his hands away from his trembling body, denying himself that which he yearned for. No release, not yet. Not until he finished this blasted chapter. Richie bit his lip, hard, clamping down on the whimper as his breathing returned to normal and his heart rate slowed. The wound healed in seconds, but not before he tasted the salty wetness of his own blood.   
  
"God, the things I do for money," he murmured. The young Immortal went back to staring at the screen, lost in a world that existed solely in his mind. He was so involved in the fantasy world, he never felt the warning as an Immortal approached. That indescribable warning to prepare for battle.   
  


* * *

  
Gregor Powers felt tired, cranky, and miserable. Not only had all the assistants at the magazine shoot been Argentinean natives, but tropical storm Bernadette had caused innumerable delays. No one hired to help spoke more than a few words of English, and Marcus had gotten so sick he had to be hospitalized. They managed to get a few good shots done, but the sponsors had soon declared the whole thing a fiasco, and cut the shoot short. Way short. And that meant Gregor's fees also got cut. Not enough to damage his bank account, but he still had an image to uphold.   
  
Once he returned to the States, it had gotten no better. Customs had impounded most of his equipment, for "evaluation" and his luggage was somewhere over the Atlantic. That meant his sword was over the Atlantic as well. Or so said the girl at the Delta desk informed him. They weren't exactly sure *where* his luggage was. It was late, he was tired, and he comes home to find *this*.   
  
He gazed over Richie's bare back, at his lover of almost two years. Who sat alone in the house, facing away from the door, and had yet to react to the presence of another Immortal. Duncan, Richie's old teacher, had warned Gregor about his disregard of the necessities. When Richie was distracted, he was thoroughly distracted.   
  
For a brief second, Gregor was tempted to walk back into the living room, snatch the nearest blade, and proceed to scare the piss out of the preoccupied kid. Or possibly grab his almost naked body and fuck his brains out, right there on the computer table. The way Gregor felt at the moment, a good ravashing would do more for his snippy mood than a good fright.   
  
He dropped his carryon on the floor, watching Richie come out of the daze. His lanky leg slid over Richie, letting him settle his compact form on the young Immortal's lap. "What did I tell you about keeping your sword handy?" Hands wrapped around the young man's head, trapping it, pushing the lips forward for Gregor to kiss.   
  
Richie's mouth parted, his confusion fading as he smelled and tasted his lover. "God, I've missed you." Another breathless confession turned into a groan as Gregor wrapped his fingers in the short, dark blond hair and captured the mouth again.   
  
The growing bulge in Gregor's pants rubbed over the washboard stomach. Richie's hands clasped his waist, pulling him closer, driving him onward. He pulled the blond's hair back, giving the young Immortal another reason to groan. Gregor enjoyed making him wait. "I think you need to answer my question."   
  
Dire need gripped Richie's body. He bucked in the chair, driving his own erection against Gregor's ass. "I'd rather you handle my sword." He ran his hands over the other Immortal's back, breathing heavily as the metal zipper teeth of the leather jacket raked across his bare chest. "Welcome home."   
  
Gregor bent down to nibble the flesh right behind Richie's ear, savoring the salty sweat and the musky scent. His buttocks twitched as they rubbed over the cloth-encased hardness, just as his own shaft ached for freedom. They had often fucked in this position. "I missed you too."   
  
One of Richie's hands slid under Gregor's shirt, fingers tracing a path across the lightly hairy chest, reacquainting itself with familiar curves. Gregor's mouth kissed a trail over a jaw, heading back to the warm, supple mouth. Richie threw his arm around the photographer's head, trapping the black hair as his own was captured.   
  
Thighs protesting, Gregor slid up, grinding his hard shaft along Richie's naked flesh, giving the young Immortal's hand a chance to slide down and free his straining erection from his painfully tight shorts. Lips made the lightest of touches, both men moaning their desire. "Take it off," the much older Immortal whispered, dreaming constantly of this moment since earlier that day. And neither cared it would be rough and quick, their location a hindrance. Long, slow loving would take place in their bed as soon as they sated their fierce need for each other.   
  
"Oh, God," Richie pleaded, grasping at the synthetic fabric of his shorts, desperate for release, for the touch of skin against skin. He bucked, trying to pull his only clothing down. Eyes glistened as Gregor watched, frustration and need translating almost into pain. "Ooohhh."   
  
The phone rang, startling the pair. Each froze, caught in a breath, fear overriding desire. Gregor almost screamed, his muscles trembling in protest. He could feel Richie's form shudder as time seemed to stop. Until the phone rang again. Like a wild animal, the photographer pounced on it, yanking the receiver to his ear. "What," he hissed, his reedy voice low and rumbling.   
  
The person on the other end spoke for only a minute, but each second brought a darker look to Gregor's face, already flush with emotion. "Yeah, I understand. I'll be there." The photographer slid off the younger Immortal, replacing the receiver and standing up. His erection throbbed in his pants, matching an equally hard cock in Richie's shorts. "Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck."   
  
"I wish," Richie replied, his breath coming in gasps. His young face was flushed, all the way down to his chest. His other hand slid down to join its mate, both cupping his straining rod. "What now?"   
  
Gregor's hand traced where Richie's fingers had been moments ago. "That was the East Side Station. They need a photographer."   
  
Richie groaned, knowing what that meant. "What about their guys?"   
  
"Lance is at a symposium in Chicago, Johnson has the flu and Brinkley's at another crime scene across town." A quick look into the closet found a spare camera, loaded and ready to go. Gregor bent over, giving his full attention to kissing Richie. "I'm sorry, bud." His hand brushed across the dark blond curls, cupping the young Immortal's head. "I am so sorry. Keep the fire burning, I'll be back as soon as I can."   
  
Almost with a mind of its own, Richie's cock jumped in his cupped hands. "I don't know if I can...."   
  
The photographer's fingers gripped the blond curls tighter, forcing Richie's head back farther. "You better. I'd hate to punish you."   
  
That perked the young Immortal up. "Spank me?" he asked, a wicked gleam in his ice blue eyes.   
  
Gregor laughed, heading for the front door. "You'd enjoy it too much, lover." And then he was out the door, not even bothering to change from his travel clothes. "The things I do for the police," he muttered as he unlocked the Jeep's door. He just hoped his erection would be manageable by the time he got to the crime scene.   
  


* * *

  
"Wife leave ya hangin'?" Detective Bruskow asked as Gregor crossed the police line. Even though walking caused only mild pain, there was still an obvious bulge in the photographer's pants.   
  
Always up for a challenge, he readjusted himself right in front of the detective. "You know I only have a boyfriend, Bruby. And that's a risk when you call me in the middle of the night."   
  
Al Bruskow chuckled, waving his cigarette at the Immortal. "Yeah, yeah. I'll promise not to call so late next time. This...this is special." The detective's voice broke, something Gregor never remembered happening before. The policeman motioned over to a dark alley, the apparent scene of the crime. "Take your time."   
  
Gregor recognized the scent before he got close to the alley. That particularly haunting smell of death, not recent, but old. As a doctor, back in the early 1800's, he had experienced it often -- miners trapped in rubble, whole families forgotten on a mountainside. He'd even revived in a mass grave once, buried under numerous decomposing bodies. No wonder the crime scene was almost deserted.   
  
*FLASH*   
  
His camera caught the bodies, all three of them. They were laid out on the asphalt, toy soldiers frozen at attention. Each one different, except for one overriding factor. They were all dead.   
  
*FLASH*   
  
He moved closer to the first, walking around the victim, shooting each angle, each nuance. Violence was something he had become impassive about, so lost that at one point that it rolled off of him like water. Some of that coldness still remained, enough that he did this job stoically and efficiently.   
  
*FLASH*   
  
A gentleman, not so old. Eyes closed, but his face was frozen in some panicked expression. A wound at his neck, hidden by the.... Gregor paused, staring. He knelt in, fidgeting with the camera lens to adjust the focus. The stiff wore an ivory scarf around his neck.   
  
*FLASH*   
  
In fact, he was wearing what appeared to be a women's pantsuit. "What the?" Gregor asked, looking around. But all the policemen were well away from the area, those nearby holding handkerchiefs to their faces. The photographer turned back, crouching down on still-aching legs. The man had been decapitated, his head lined up with the bloody neck.   
  
*FLASH* *FLASH*   
  
The second was a woman, no longer young, but active. Her body was of a powerfully built man, black in skin tone, whose head rested against the third body. All three had been decapitated, and all three heads were placed on the wrong body.   
  
*FLASH*   
  
The medical examiner approached, slipping on fresh plastic gloves. "Hey, Greg," Susan acknowledged, presenting her cheek for the photographer to kiss. "Long time, no see."   
  
Gregor shrugged, skirting the bodies to take more photos from the other end. "Not the most pleasant place for a reunion. What's the dope?"   
  
The white-coated woman settled on her haunches, pointing out the bodies. "All decapitated. Probable cause of death. But not here, and not at the same time. This one...."   
  
*FLASH*   
  
"Forty days," Gregor said, lining up another shot.   
  
Susan looked at him, a small smile creeping across her lips. "Given temperature and humidity, I'm guessing probably thirty-five to forty. Won't know until I get fluid samples analyzed." She waved at the rest. "The others -- sometime sooner. Are you sure you...."   
  
*FLASH*   
  
Gregor made sure the next shot went off in her face, cutting her off. "I'm just a photographer with a good nose." He made sure to photograph each detail she pointed out, recording the information for posterity. "You said they were murdered elsewhere?"   
  
The woman softly groaned as she stood, slipping off the latex gloves. "Besides the fact there isn't enough blood around to be the murder scene, and the fact they're laid out so neatly, do you think everybody's been ignoring that smell for weeks?"   
  
*FLASH*   
  
The last photograph featured Susan, standing in the dark alley. "I guess not," Gregor quipped. "Want an eight by ten for your mantle?"   
  
She smiled. "Thanks," she replied with a hint of sarcasm. "I'm sure a color photo of me standing in a dark alley with three corpses at my feet won't give my children nightmares. Stop by the office in the morning, you can sneak a peek at the official autopsy report."   
  
The Immortal's perchance for sleuthing was a well known fact to the city's police force, helped by his success rate and his fondness for letting the detectives take all the credit. He knew when to keep his mouth shut, and his eyes open. Especially around the bizarre stuff. And his almost legendary ability to keep from getting hurt. "I'll be there."   
  
Susan walked away, leaving Gregor standing in the alley, the images he had seen through his lens flashing again in his brain. This one definitely counted as bizarre.   
  
"I want those as soon as possible, Powers," Detective Bruskow informed him as the Immortal headed back to his Jeep. That's all he needed right now, another long night. Well, Richie'd just have to simmer a little longer.   
  


* * *

  
**It was a hot and steamy night. Caroline opened her large bay windows, desperate for a cool breeze. Her silken nightgown lay plastered to her body from the sweat. She saw him, standing in the moonlight, naked save for well-worn leather pants. "Ricardo," she breathed, clutching her heaving bosom, as the stablehand crushed her against his barrel chest, his skin glistening in the soft moonlight.  
  
"Caroline," he whispered, his voice as gentle as the night air. Their lips searched out each other, mashing together in a tangle of...**  
  
Gregor couldn't help chuckling as he saved Richie's work before shutting down the computer. Somehow the young Immortal had crawled into bed and left it on. Not unusual, the photographer had learned. He never understood how Richie could be such a slob about certain things, and then be so meticulously careful about the bodice rippers he churned out. But that was just part of the man he loved.   
  
He crossed the short hallway, dropping his camera in the bedroom converted to a darkroom, taking quiet steps back to the master suite. Richie slept huddled under the covers, only dark blond hair visible in the faint moonlight. With a sigh, he allowed himself a moment to mentally picture what he'd rather be doing, then turned back to his darkroom.   
  
Still aroused from earlier, not even the horrendous crime scene had dampened his need. Taking off his jacket, he flung it into a corner, reaching into a small refrigerator for a coke. He kept the darkroom stocked with an assortment of drinks, some to offer the rare visitor, but mostly to keep himself going on nights like this.   
  
He switched the lights to red after taking a sip, cracking open the camera case and pulling out the film. "Nothing like a triple-murder to welcome you home...."   
  


* * *

 

  
  
Awareness of the other Immortal slipped into Richie's dreams. He jerked awake with a start, his befuddled mind supplying the information -- Gregor was home. It hadn't been a dream, one of many the young Immortal had suffered the last few days. He slowly opened his eyes, not needing sight to know his lover was _very_ close.   
  
"Hello..." he whispered, barely making out Gregor sitting on the edge of their bed, one leg folded under him, the other dangling off the side. The ring Richie had given him lay glistening in the dim moonlight, the sole decoration on the photographer's bare chest.   
  
Gregor hadn't moved, still looking at Richie, his head tilted to one side.   
  
"Whacha' looking at?" Richie asked lazily, shifting around under the covers until his knee came in contact with Gregor's leg through the bedding. The small connection made Richie smile. God, he loved waking up like this.   
  
Whispered words floated across the gulf between them. "You are so beautiful." A hand brushed his short hair away from his forehead, fingers trailing down along his jaw. The touch sent shivers down his spine. He briefly opened his lips, sucking in one of the digits to taste. The spice he recognized as Gregor.   
  
He let the photographer pull away the covers, exposing more of his naked body inch by inch. The delight from his lover was obvious, the heavy breathing and soft sound of a tongue running over dried lips. Gregor rested his hand over Richie's furry stomach, slowly rubbing in circles, feeling the abdominal muscles and soft, ticklish hair. The hand brushed higher, traveling over hardened nipples and pectorals, teasing, exploring, relearning each plane and curve.   
  
"So...beautiful..." Gregor murmured again as he bent down and kissed the valley of Richie's chest. The hand danced down, slowly worming its way under the covers, following the forest of body hair below the young Immortal's navel. Richie gasped as the hand closed around his still-hard shaft.   
  
A chuckle escaped Gregor's lips as the hand gently squeezed and released the straining rod. "What have we here?" his husky voice asked when his fingers encountered the leather cock ring.   
  
Richie almost couldn't answer because of all the wonderful sensations flooding his responsive body. "I...I... I haven't touched it since you left, Greg. I waited for you."   
  
Gregor's warm body covered Richie's as the photographer bent down to kiss him on the lips. "I love you," the lips whispered reverently, bruising his mouth as fingers stroked his rod. "God, how I love you...."   
  
*BEEP* *BEEP* *BEEP *BEEP*   
  
Quickly, the photographer switched off the wristwatch alarm, his sorrow evident to Richie's eyes as he looked at the illuminated dial. "Damn," he cursed, pushing off of the young Immortal's body. "Five minute warning, Rich. Not enough time...."   
  
As Gregor eased away, Richie reached out and grabbed the Immortal's belt, pulling him roughly back onto the bed. "You're not leaving until you take me. Now."   
  
"I.... The film...."   
  
Richie's hands found the zipper of Gregor's tight jeans, savagely jerking the tab down to expose the bulging white underwear. "Five minutes is all I need," he added, taking just a second to look at the man above him. Eyes closed, head thrown back, Gregor's body was covered in sweat, glistening in the moonlight. His chest expanded with each heavy breath, his hands clenched at his sides as Richie groped for his shaft. Denim clad legs spread as he knelt on the bed. The picture of lust. How many times Richie wished he had the gift Gregor possessed, to immortalize his lover in this pose.   
  
With a growl, Gregor's cock sprang into the air, thrusting from black jeans and white cotton. Richie kicked away the covers, silently urging Gregor closer as he lifted his legs. Hands gripped his thighs, lifting them higher, doubling Richie over into a position familiar to him. He guided Gregor to him, running his fingers over the shaft, pulling their bodies together.   
  
Grunting at the sharp pain, Richie found himself penetrated. A gasp of surprise from his lover told him the lubricant he had coated himself with was noticed and appreciated. Gregor plunged deep, not wasting time with trivialities, taking Richie with brute force.   
  
The young Immortal groaned his desire, the sensation of fullness satisfying a deep need that had been growing the last week. He ran his hands over the taut chest above him, stroking the fine hairs and brushing the peaked nubs. Lips found his as Gregor thrust in and out, increasing the tempo when Richie urged him onward.   
  
A hand wrapped itself around Richie's trembling organ, jerking hard with each lunge. As one, they moaned in stereo, lost in the animal lust between them. Richie reached the edge, ready to burst, clenching his ass muscles tightly at the first hint of orgasm, bringing Gregor into the chasm with him.   
  
Muscles locked, a throaty growl echoing in the bedroom as both froze, trembling. Each shook as they came, lost in passion, knowing no reason or thought, just the mind-numbing release. Then Gregor fell limply onto Richie, both men gasping in relief.   
  
It was a comfortable weight, a warmth spreading through Richie even as he felt his lover's seed dripping down his thighs. Bare chest to bare chest, he could feel their hearts racing, feel the tight nipples brushing his own. He had been taken, thoroughly, fulfilling a desire that had been building steadily. His partner was spread over him like a blanket, comforting, secure, wanted.   
  
Gregor started to move away. Richie's arms tightened, trapping the photographer against him. "I have to see to the film, Rich."   
  
"Missed you," was all Richie said as he nuzzled the neck and shoulder against his chin. Then Gregor was gone, his arms empty. His body arched forward, searching for the warmth, the comfort, finding none. With a groan of ache and despair, he relaxed against the sheets, drifting softly back into a satisfied, but troubled sleep.   
  


* * *

  
Even at seven in the morning, the police station, especially Homicide, was in full swing. Crammed with personnel just going off and coming on, Gregor inched his way to Bruskow's desk, ears ringing as one group filled in the other about the evening's happening.   
  
"Coffee," the detective yelled in his ear, leading the way back out of the madhouse. Once they reached the ground floor, and slipped into a booth at the diner next door, the middle-aged mortal breathed a loud sigh of relief. "Sometimes a man can't think with all that gabbing going on."   
  
"Yeah," Gregor agreed, waving two fingers at the waitress behind the counter. The pair exchanged folders, the case files for the shots Gregor took earlier. Both were deep in though as the waitress left two cups of coffee and a plate of donuts.   
  
"God, these look bad," Bruskow breathed. "Not a slam on you, it's just...."   
  
"Have the bodies been I.D.ed?" Gregor asked, breaking the detective's train of thought. After having such a glorious, but quick, bout of sex, going back to such grizzly work had made his skin crawl. He really didn't want to be reminded of the pictures still haunting his brain.   
  
"Lady was Fiona Lefler, tourist from Maryland." He found the picture and sheet at the same time Bruskow spoke. "History teacher. Spent her spring break putting together a presentation on early American settlers."   
  
"I guess she got deeper into Dallas history than she planned," he commented, reaching for the coffee. The report added a few other sketchy details. Missing for three weeks. Not married, lived alone. Coached a variety of girl's athletics. Same school for three years. A favorite of the students. "And the others?"   
  
Bruskow swallowed a bite of donut. "Black guy was Jerome Lasalle, L.A. Got a sheet as long as his surfboard. Suspected of several murders before he jumped bail and ended up here."   
  
Beheadings, the case file added. Nothing that could be pinned on the guy, but lots of suspected activity. He had been careless fencing stolen goods, and mixed up with drugs. A real piece of work. "And the third?"   
  
"No clue." Bruskow gestured with a glazed donut at the folder. "Look at the last page, that should really interest you. Came across them after you left."   
  
A Polaroid of three swords, buried in a bin of refuse, stared back at Gregor. A lump settled in the pit of his stomach as he realized the victims were probably Immortals. Three in almost that many weeks. At least. "Shit, shit, shit."   
  
A ghost of a smile passed Al Bruskow's lips as he sipped his coffee. Gregor wondered how much the mortal suspected, or guessed, and if he'd ever breathe a word. Probably not. They had done some good work together, the pair of them. It almost seemed that Al accepted he'd not have all the answers, and would keep his mouth closed. As long as his city ended up safe.   
  
"Both the Mayor and Commissioner want to keep this quiet," Bruskow added as he reached for his wallet. "That means no talking, especially to that boyfriend of yours."   
  
"I know," Gregor quietly replied, the words layered with meaning. He wondered how Richie would react, knowing there was a head hunter in town, and not able to do anything about it.   
  


* * *

  
"So what kind of sword did this?" Gregor asked as he lifted up the sheet. The morgue always gave him the chills, both figuratively and literally. But any information Susan could give him would be worth it.   
  
She slipped off a pair of rubber gloves as she walked around the last table toward him. "Don't you mean _which_ one?" she clarified, gesturing over at the three swords on the computer table.   
  
"No," he replied, letting the sheet fall. "They aren't the murder weapon."   
  
"Damn, you're good," she exclaimed. "How do you....?" Her voice trailed off as he smiled. "No, I guess I don't want to know."   
  
Gregor took a look at the second victim, the woman. "So what do you know?"   
  
The sound of the rolling chair squeaking as Susan sat in it echoed in the sterile room. "Not a whole lot. Assuming all parties were standing, the perp is about five-five to six feet. Don't know male or female. Pretty sharp object, most likely a sword. Powerful person, severed all three of the heads clean off."   
  
It was difficult for Gregor to make anything out through the plastic wrapping the swords, but all three seemed well cared for...and used. "So you don't know if this is some kind of ritual killing for some esoteric reason, or even a kinky sort of message to a mysterious person who'll probably end up as victim number four...."   
  
"Jeezus, Greg! What has that guy of your's been writing? I though he did normal trashy romance stuff?"   
  
Gregor grinned at the mental picture of Richie, curled up on the couch to watch the X-files, Outer Limits and Poltergeist on Friday nights. "He's strictly an 'insert tab A into slot B and add glue' writer. No, just testing your credibility level this morning."   
  
Susan smiled as she crossed her legs under the table. "Thanks for bringing up such lovely ideas. Shall I call you when Sheriff Buck shows up?"   
  
Gregor chuckled as he walked to the double doors of the morgue. "Only if Al starts glowing green and floating. He still owes me a twenty from last month's poker game...."   
  


* * *

  
"You look like shit!" were the first words out of Richie's mouth, followed closely by "...but I still think you're cute."   
  
Gregor had a dreamy smile plastered on his face as the young Immortal wrapped his arms around the photographer, enjoying a long, hard hug. "Feels nice," the voice murmured as a cold nose nuzzled Richie's neck.   
  
Richie barely pulled back, enough to glance at the other's face. "You're out on your feet."   
  
"Tired," Gregor sleepily acknowledged.   
  
With only a little groping, the pair managed to stumble to the bedroom, each comically trying to help the other remove Gregor's clothing. By the time the older Immortal was tucked under the covers, both were giggling like schoolboys.   
  
"Shall I tell you a bedtime story?" Richie whispered, ending the question with a soft kiss to the head of dark hair.   
  
The reply was muffled by the bedding and the wiggling head movement indistinct.   
  
The young Immortal had barely gotten to the "far, far away" part before a soft sigh escaped from Gregor's lips. The photographer was fast asleep, lost in a dreamworld of his own fantasies.   
  
Quietly, Richie slipped off the bed, careful to not disturb the sleeper. He grabbed a t-shirt from the closet and his keys off the dresser. With a pair of sneakers in his hand, he gently closed the bedroom door, ready for his usual morning run.   
  
Hours later, his hair still wet from the shower, Richie carefully leaned over the bed, trying not to drip on the exposed skin sprawled over the king-sized mattress. Somehow, Gregor had pushed the covers down while he slept, revealing a broad, smooth back and rounded buttocks to Richie's view.   
  
The young Immortal briskly finished toweling himself dry. With care, he slid in beside the naked photographer, grimacing as the warm body flinched away from his cold, clammy skin. He quickly pulled the covers back up, lying down on the wide back, relishing the heat that tightened his nipples and made his toes curl.   
  
His lips found a small patch of skin, barely visible underneath the collar-length black hair. Gregor never woke up as Richie curled around him, melding into his pliant body, drifting off to sleep in the middle of the day.   
  


* * *

 

  
  
"I wished you'd clean up your mess," Gregor yelled out to the kitchen as he dumped both towels and all their dirty clothes in the hamper. His co-habitator never seemed to use it. He found a clean pair of sweatpants in the drawer, pulling them on, not caring who's they were. Both men wore similar sizes, and often traded clothes. Or more likely, Richie would borrow something "cool" of Gregor's and never give it up.   
  
Refreshed, awake and finally over the horrible jet lag from yesterday, the photographer smiled at himself in the mirror. He watched his hand, almost of its own volition, spread across his chest, tracing the line of bite marks that were slowly fading. From shoulder to stomach, detouring briefly to torment each small bud on his pectorals.   
  
One of the many things he loved about Richie was how the kid always seemed to wake up horny. Not that Gregor ever complained. It was very satisfying to slowly become aware of a hot mouth around his cock, or kisses trailing from groin to neck.   
  
His hand reached into the sweatpants and curled around his flaccid penis, coaxing it gently to life, fantasizing about Richie's hands on his body. His aching body that had done without, trapped alone in Argentina. Pinching a nipple, he groaned from the stimulation that made his cock jump. "Ooooh, love," he whispered, gripping his lengthening rod hard, faint stirrings of lust smoldering deep inside.   
  
The young Immortal would drive him wild, kissing him just so on his neck. The fingers circling his crinkled tit scampered upward, stroking the small spot of flesh Richie enjoyed feasting on. He panted, his muscles tightening, ass clenching as he stroked his shaft, grinding his hips forward in time to silent, passionate music that only he could hear....   
  
"Supper, Greg!"   
  
Damn.   
  
Gregor shut the drawer, not bothering with a shirt. He knew Richie would take one look at his abused body and realize exactly what he'd been doing to himself. The kid'd smile that shit-eating grin, aware he had caught his lover taking liberties with himself.   
  
He'd scowl, a mock emotion if Gregor ever saw one, and wag his finger, telling the photographer what a bad boy he was. He'd then probably order Gregor to continue the activity while his laughing blue eyes watched, withholding the food except as treats when Gregor did something to himself Richie enjoyed watching. The only way to get fed would be to perform for his young lover, obeying his orders, demeaning himself for morsels of meat or bread.   
  
The thought made him rock hard. Now, to just get the kid to play along.   
  
**Caroline strolled from the library, aware that Ricardo's eyes drilled holes in her back. She could stand his enmity, his hate and disgust would destroy her. Her bedroom had become her sanctuary here at the Mediterranean villa. A place where her shameful past and haunted secrets could never touch her.  
  
In bed she dreamed of her unworthy suitor, the brown hair topping the often harsh face. She imagined him here in her room, not caring about her deeds, her lies. She lifted the sheets, her hands roaming along her hot, sweaty skin....**  
  
Gregor chuckled, reading the paragraph Richie began before stopping to fix supper. No wonder the kid had such an obvious bulge in his jeans when Gregor stepped out of the bathroom, searching for a clean towel. Poor guy'd been interrupted just as things got interested.   
  
A smile crossed his lips. Richie would be more than ready for some action with dinner, most likely ravashing Gregor on the dining table. The kid always looked so darn sexy when he was horny and desperate. Having an idea what to do for dessert later, *much* later, Gregor leaned over the chair and typed one handed on the keyboard.   
  
**"Take me, Ricardo, take me!" she cried frantically, lifting her pale legs to her head, opening herself to his raging manhood. Erect, proud, the stablehand did exactly as she ordered.**  
  
"Oh yes, Richie -- your wish in my command tonight," he whispered, saving the file and shutting down the computer. Richie wouldn't need it for _quite_ a while.   
  


* * *

  
"Okay, now...look to my left," Gregor said, holding out his arm for Richie to focus on. The young Immortal stood shyly in the middle of the living room, hardly glancing up at all.   
  
With a sigh, Gregor stood from his crouch, setting down his camera and walking over to the robed figure. "Something wrong?" he asked, lifting Richie's head for a small, brief kiss.   
  
"No."   
  
Gregor brushed his still-naked torso against the back of Richie's fingers. "Then...." His sentence trailed off as he brought the hand up to grasp the bathrobe, opening it up to reveal a pale, hair-covered chest. The other side of the robe was pulled back, showing the nipple and leaving a two inch gap all the way down. The lime green speedo the kid wore came into view, as did the muscled thigh below it. Richie didn't pick up his cue to explain his mood, just stared off to the side.   
  
*FLASH*   
  
Even when his subject was moody, Gregor lost his breath at what he saw through the camera lens. Tonight there was a sullenness that went well with the small, compact form. "All right, now turn around....."   
  
*FLASH*   
  
Back to the camera, one side of the robe pulled off the muscular shoulder, head turned enough to see a profile over the pale skin. "Little farther...." More skin revealed, but the face still looked troubled, carrying a hint of despair mixed with hopelessness. A fallen angel, agonizing over lost grace. Such a powerful moment. Once again, Gregor wished he had talent at sculpture, wanting to immortalize the tableau in stone. He wondered if Tessa had ever used him as a model.   
  
*FLASH*   
  
It was rare treat when Richie agreed to model for him. Just enough that their house had several prints on the walls, most black and white, of Richie in various poses and dress. Each one captured the young Immortal in a thought, a moment or mood. Gregor tried to convince him that they were good enough for at least a coffee book or two. A show at the gallery. Even Duncan, culturally depraved that the Highlander was, said they were fantastic.   
  
*FLASH*   
  
"Now the other shoulder...." Richie let the robe fall off his shoulders, exposing his back, letting the cloth gather at his waist. Gregor stepped forward long enough to plant a kiss on the smooth expanse before backing away again, shutter flying as he moved.   
  
*FLASH* *FLASH*   
  
"Turn and face me, keep the robe....there...." Fists clenched the robe about his waist, his arms and pectorals in stark relief. Unconsciously Gregor wet his dry lips, aching to taste each curve, each bulge. "Beautiful baby, just beautiful."   
  
*FLASH*   
  
Two nipples, peaking slowly out of the tangle of ruddy hair, begging to be licked, tongued, swirled with attention to hardness, kissed and nipped in pleasure. Kings of the two mounds of his chest, crowned dictators where Gregor was concerned.   
  
*FLASH*   
  
"Now.... Open the robe, wider, wider.... I want to see what you're packing." Richie opened the robe, showing off the growing bulge covered in bright green spandex. The black robe ends draped down either side, giving a glimpse at the sturdy legs held shoulder width apart. Richie's head was bowed, as if even he was focus on the delights now visible. "Perfect," Gregor breathed, more to himself than aloud.   
  
*FLASH* *FLASH* *FLASH*   
  
As the robe slipped down, Gregor kept taking pictures, imagining which one to frame and send to Duncan. He wondered if MacLeod thought about his protege in *that* regard. Even if there was no physical attraction, the Highlander would enjoy a permanent reminder of the beauty he encouraged and nurtured in a one-time street thief. Maybe even coaxed into letting Gregor record the Scot's own masculine form for posterity.   
  
*FLASH*   
  
Unaware how lost in thought he was, Gregor continued to automatically take pictures, recording each movement, each breath from the almost nude form on display. The trembling body, curling in on itself inch by inch went unnoticed. The slight growl unheard.   
  
*FLASH*   
  
"Greg....."   
  
Richie's voice barely registered on his consciousness, creeping through the hazy image of MacLeod and his student together, nude, posed for Gregor's camera occupied the photographer's mind. Details of getting the two to that point blocked out the shaking arms, clutching the robe around the Richie's waist.   
  
"That's enough."   
  
*FLASH*   
  
The young Immortal dropped the robe, his face turning red. Arms crossed across his bare chest, fighting off the unfeeling, unseeing equipment.   
  
*FLASH*   
  
"God damn it! That's enough!"   
  
"What?" Gregor uttered as he dropped the camera in surprise.   
  
Richie stormed off with a growl, not willing to take any more. By the time he got untangled from the camera and light cords, his subject had slammed the door to their bedroom.   
  
"Rich?" Gregor asked as he hurried down the dark hallway. When he reached the door, he tried the knob. "Rich?" Locked. "Richie!"   
  
"Go away, damn it!" His lover's voice sounded torn and horse, even muffled by the wood door. "I don't want to talk to you." His voice cracked.   
  
Gregor rested his head against the cold barrier. "Let me in, Rich." He could hear the bed squeak and the covers thump as they were thrown around. "Open the door, love." He tried the knob again anyway, knowing it was still locked. "Richard?"   
  
"Just leave me alone," Richie begged, his voice choked with tears.   
  
Not willing to give up, the photographer rammed his shoulder into the door. "Open the door!" But they had replaced the doors and windows with reinforced substitutes when they had moved in, the better to keep out unwanted Immortals. And the door was doing it's job. "Open the fucking door!" Gregor screamed, still fighting with the knob and slamming his body against it. "Son of a bitch!"   
  
All he could hear was the pain and anguish behind the wood, picturing Richie half-naked and trembling in their bed. Alone. He found his cheeks wet himself as he struggled to get it. "Damn it, Richard, don't do this!"   
  
Nothing.   
  
"Don't do this to me!"   
  


* * *

  
The phone shook Gregor from his slumber, curled up on the sofa with the Late Show playing. "Yeah," he snarled into the receiver, his arm the only limb sticking out from under the blanket.   
  
"Well, at least you're not breathing heavily this time," Al Bruskow commented. His gruff chuckle over the static of a cell phone levied the blatant comment. "My wife hates being interrupted, too."   
  
It was Gregor's turn to chuckle, thumbing down the volume of the TV with the remote. "You didn't call because you wanted to hear Dave's Top Ten -- what's up?"   
  
There were faint sirens in the background. "We got another stiff, same place, same...condition. You busy?"   
  
God, another one. What do you want to bet it's fresh? "Isn't Johnson better?"   
  
"Sure. Thought you might want to gander at the crime scene."   
  
Gregor flicked off the TV and threw aside the blanket. "You bet. Let me grab a camera." He hung up the phone, then quietly crept to the darkroom. He spared the still-locked bedroom door an angry glance, then left. "Two can play at that game, Richie, my love!"   
  


* * *

  
"It's fresher," Greg commented, bending down on one knee to get a closer look in the dim light. His booted foot almost touched the congealed pool of blood. He guessed the body was only hours old, a startling contrast to the others found in the alley the previous night. The head had been placed back against the body, still dressed in a conservative suit and tie. "Any ideas who it is?"   
  
Susan leaned over, lifting the suit with a pen to examine a chest wound. "Commissioner Rand confirmed it's Cary Wellington."   
  
Gregor let out a low wolf whistle. "The multi-gazillionaire recluse? I'll bet the papers will have a field day with this."   
  
"And the Chief is gonna chew out our collective ass if we don't have something to hand her in the morning," Al added as he walked up. "As of right now, we have *zip.*" He looked down at the corpse, his face turning pale in the moonlight spilling into the alley. "Is this the same as the others, Susan?"   
  
The forensic pathologist finished, collecting the few samples she had procured and closing up her bag. Her hand waved at the body. "Looks like it. Wounds seems consistent...the angle *appears* to be right." She shook her head. "You know it'll have to wait until I get him into the lab. Right now I couldn't swear it's not a cross-dressing dwarf in spandex standing on a trashcan doing this."   
  
"Damn, I was hoping for more," Al cursed. His face immediately softened. "Sorry, Doc. I know you're doing fantastic stuff here, but I need more to protect my hide. I can't go to the chief with a lycra-loving transvestite that's vertically challenged. She'll want pictures!"   
  
Susan flashed her own smile in forgiveness as Gregor finally stood. "So would I! I guess now would be the time to call in the mud-sniffing Mounties and sensitive Sentinels." he asked, brushing off his jeans.   
  
"Oooh, alliteration," Al cooed. "Has Richie been trying to teach you to read again?"   
  
"Something like that," Gregor shot back.   
  
"Boys," Susan broke in, holding up her hand in surrender. "Play nice." The two men couldn't keep laughter off their faces. "I'm surprised you haven't had any luck with all the fresh blood lying around."   
  
The detective shrugged. "It's midnight, and all the men I can spare are walking around the neighborhood with flashlights *trying* to find dark brown stains on dirty black asphalt." Al pointed his own light at the ground, showing how the congealing blood almost matched the color of the pavement. "It *would* take one of those fancy characters to find it. Unless Greg wants to do another miracle...."   
  
"Sorry, I left my wolf at home!" Gregor snipped with just a hint of sarcasm. But the words triggered an idea. "Dogs!"   
  
Startled at the sudden shout, Al brought his flashlight up right into Gregor's face. "What?"   
  
Using his arms to block out the light, Gregor let out an angry "hey!" Once the flashlight was safely stowed in the detective's coat pocket, the Immortal finished. "Get one of the drug dogs out here. They should be able to follow the trail."   
  
"Smart lad," Bruskow acknowledged as he pulled his cell phone out. "Dispatch? Get me the drug squad."   
  
Susan came up close to Gregor, whispering while the police detective issued orders. "Excellent idea. You want to share your inspiration?"   
  
The dark-haired Immortal smiled as he leaned closer to the woman. "I was helping on a case once where we tracked a moonshiner through the woods using hunting dogs." The mental image of Duncan trying to rein in the growling, snapping hounds brought a laugh to his lips.   
  
"Moonshiner? When was this?"   
  
"It was...." Gregor stopped before finishing the sentence with the actual year. "...a long time ago." Fifty years sure qualified as a long time in Gregor's mind.   
  
"Thanks," Al said into his phone and punched the power button. With a flourish, he closed the mouthpiece. "Great idea, Greg. I owe you one."   
  
Any reply Gregor could have made was drowned out by a squad car tearing around the nearby corner, lights and siren clearing out all traffic in its path. Once it slammed to a halt and the siren silenced, Gregor winked at Susan. "That was pretty fast, Al," he pointed out as a drug dog was whistled out of the passenger seat. "Just like Walker, Texas Ranger...."   
  
Bruskow shrugged. "Sometimes life *is* like art." He walked off, shouting out orders and taking charge of the new officers.   
  
It only took thirty minutes before the police detective found Gregor and Susan again, drinking coffee from a donated thermos while they waited. "We found the pot o' gold, kiddies. Warehouse just down the street." He pointed out a vacant squad car. "Hop in, if you want to see the payoff."   
  
By the time they reached the warehouse in question, the excitement was over. A handful of cops lounged around as a long-hair, raggedly dressed bum was led out of the dilapidated building in handcuffs.   
  
"Hamilton," Al shouted over the car roof the moment he got out of the cruiser. A young patrolman hurried over. "Give us the details."   
  
The rookie, out of breath, gave his report with little gasps between sentences. "We surprised him. Had the murder weapon in his hand, blood still dripping from it. Easy to subdue, sir."   
  
While the young policeman reported, Gregor watched them load the suspect into the back of a squad car. "No wonder," he interjected. "The guy's blind."   
  
"What?" Al bellowed.   
  
The rookie nodded. "True, sir. Can't see a thing. Just waved the sword haphazardly at us."   
  
The detective rubbed his forehead, his face creased in pain from a growing headache. "Thank you, son." With a nod, the rookie jogged back to the lights and crowd. "I don't think I'm gonna like this at all," he added as an aside. "Back to the Station, Susan?"   
  
The three got back into the borrowed squad car. At Bruskow's harried look of inquiry, Gregor shook his head. "Someone can drop me off at my Jeep later. I wouldn't miss this for the world."   
  


* * *

  
"He didn't do it, Al," Gregor informed his friend. They sat next door to the interrogation room, watching the frustrating conversation through a one-way mirror. "He's blind as a bat. No *way* he could sever four heads with one slice. That takes good hand-eye coordination. No one but a trained, talented swordsman could be that consistent! I'll even bet your 401k plan that the sword *isn't* the murder weapon.   
  
"I know he didn't do it!" Al angrily whispered back. Anyone could tell the detective wasn't thrilled by this turn of events. Having a solved high profile case in his grasp, only to watch it dissolve away was not helping the man's ulcer. "But he *was* at the warehouse the bodies had been dumped in and he *was* waving a bloody sword. He fucking knows *something* about what happened. Or do you think he's a clueless innocent?"   
  
Gregor got up to pace. "I think it happened just like he said. He finds the bodies, drags them away from his new, dry home and the runs across the sword just as the cops come tearing into his life."   
  
Al wasn't buying that story. "Like he's dumb enough to put the heads on the wrong bodies...."   
  
"HE'S FUCKING BLIND!" Gregor interrupted with a shout.   
  
The bum stopped talking, cocking his head to the side. Everyone waited breathlessly until he started again. Only then did the pair relax. "Sorry," Gregor mumbled. Not enough sleep made him cranky. And Richie's current mood wasn't helping, either.   
  
"No, you're right. I'm desperate, Greg." Al apologized as he rubbed his forehead. "This just can't be a dead end." He gestured at the photographer, pointing outside to the hallway. Quietly, they both left the dark room, the blind suspect still answering the same questions over and over.   
  
One of the lab technicians found them at the vending machines and handed the detective a folder with a grimace. Al looked the pages over, passing the file to Gregor. "They've found two more bodies, *really* decomposed. This looks like a serial killer's dumping ground. Has been for over a year apparently -- until our friend in there decided to homestead."   
  
"God," Gregor breathed. This was worse than he ever imagined. *Someone* in town, operating for so long? Could he or she be stalking local Immortals? Was Richie in danger? Were they both?   
  
Al must have noticed something of Gregor's concern on his face. "Look, Greg. Let me get an officer to give you a ride home. We're all tired, and whatever's been going on, eight hours ain't gonna make a difference. Go home, get some sleep. I'll have someone drop off your jeep. Maybe there'll be something to share this afternoon."   
  
The photographer handed back the folder. "It *has* been a long night. Just remember to listen to yourself. You get some sleep, too."   
  
"As soon as Stevens gets in at seven," the detective acknowledged. "I'll call you when we know something."   
  
"Thanks," Gregor replied before walking off. Now all he had to do was figure out how and when to tell his lover that they were in danger. Just what the kid needed to hear right now.   
  


* * *

  
Richie slowly awoke, gradually aware of the warm body sprawled over his. Greg was back. The young Immortal felt ashamed of his outburst last night. But how could he explain? When he finally wandered out to apologize, sometime around three, the house was empty. It hurt. He knew Gregor had left. But he was back, now. Greg *came* back. The young Immortal had always feared that one day he'd do something, say something, not be able to *be* something and he'd be alone again. One thing his early mortal life had taught him was how he hated to be alone.   
  
He turned under the body, feeling the silky chest hair scratch his back, then tease his hardened nipples. He felt the small tremors, knowing Gregor wasn't asleep. "Hey," he said groggily, running his hands over the smooth back, trying to calm the shaking man.   
  
"It's all a mess," the photographer whispered.   
  
"Let me apologize," Richie gently offered, letting his fingers run through the thick black hair as his lips found those above him. "Let me make it better, my love."   
  
With a sigh of pleasure, Gregor kissed him again, rubbing his groin over Richie's "I'm supposed to be apologizing to you."   
  
"You are," Richie breathed between tongue duels. "Oh, god, you are." He was hard, wanting, needing to show his partner how much he couldn't live without him. Bind him with desire so strong, nothing could tear them apart. He turned the shivering man over, cradling his head as they rolled to the side, winding sheets all around them, never releasing their lips.   
  
His other hand reached lower, caressing the tight buttocks and tracing a finger through the crack. Gregor gasped into his mouth, sharing air. "Please," the dark-haired Immortal begged. "I need you."   
  
Richie never stopped exploring the other's mouth and tongue as he gently, carefully raised Gregor's knees. He positioned himself by touch, using his fingers to stroke and tease the photographer's ring of muscle before steadily pushing forward. Opening his lover wide as he slid his leaking manhood deeper into the tight, hot hole.   
  
Cleaving them together, making them one. Binding them together, forever.   
  


* * *

  
Gregor woke alone, sprawled over the large bed that still smelled of sex, sweat and *Richie*. He turned over, burying his nose in the pillow. After their lovemaking this morning, he felt everything was right with the world. No worries, no fears, no serial killing Immortals stalking the streets of Dallas. Just him, his love and their normal, if sexually overactive, life.   
  
As much as he wanted to just lie there and melt, it was already after two. He strolled naked into the kitchen, reaching into the refrigerator for the jug of orange juice and drinking from the container. Once the cold liquid shocked him awake, he scratched his itching stomach, unsticking hairs that bore evidence of their passion. He reached for the yellow note on the answering machine.   
  


> **Morning,**
> 
> **Have a noon meeting with the dragon editor. Be back as soon as I can. My turn to cook supper and you better be home to eat it!**
> 
> **I love you.**

  
  
Feeling warm, sated and happy, Gregor punched the blinking button on the machine, hoping Al had some news.   
  
*BEEEEEEEP*   
  
"Hey, Greg. It's Al. It's...seven twenty, and *yes* I'm on my way home. Just wanted you to know we reached Wellington's next of kin. A nephew, Montgomery Wiles. He'll be flying into town and will be at the station this afternoon. You're invited to accidentally show up."   
  
*BEEEEEEEP*   
  
"I know where you live, Ryan. I know what you did. You didn't think Cary would tape all his challenges, did you? Or keep such extensive records. He did, especially about all your little *fights*. Think you're hot stuff? Turn about's fair play, you little prick. I'm coming for you. I'll be at the Galleria Marriott. Ask for Montgomery Wiles. You may want to say goodbye to that lover of your's. I won't be leaving him enough pieces to identify."   
  
*BEEEEEEEP*   
  


* * *

  
Richie fought with the front door, trying to balance the bag of groceries while he forced the key into the lock. He'd decided to make lasagna, sort of a 'please forgive me for last night', even though his fear seemed minute and distant. Not that their early morning lovemaking hadn't done enough. He just wanted to reinforce it with another show of love.   
  
He almost tripped over the suitcases in the entryway. Both were Gregor's. That usually meant a sudden trip, one that had to start right away. "Damn," Richie cursed under his breath. They must have rescheduled that Argentina shoot.   
  
He saw his significant other sitting in one of the dining chairs. Backwards of course, so he could lean against the back and rest his chin on his arms. Staring out at the backyard. He always did that when he was troubled or leaving, just to remind himself he lived a normal life, and had only normal problems.   
  
Richie left the bag on the kitchen counter, surprised that Gregor hadn't reacted to his presence. He strolled over to the glass doors, sliding into the seat behind Gregor, melding his body to the photographer's back.   
  
"You going somewhere?" Richie asked, his hands reaching around Gregor's chest. His head rested comfortably on the crook of the photographer's shoulder while he pulled his lover closer.   
  
"A guy called earlier. A Montgomery Wiles." Gregor's voice sounded strange. Flat. Emotionless.   
  
Richie felt a stirring of fear. Something was terribly wrong. "Never heard of him."   
  
"He's the 'nephew' of Cary Wellington."   
  
"Oh." Damn.   
  
"Oh?"   
  
Silence.   
  
The photographer cleared his throat. "You've been hiding the bodies in a warehouse on 54th Street." Not a question, but the need for an answer was pretty clear.   
  
Richie's hands found an empty coffee cup on the counter, left over from that morning. His fingers traced the edges, but his mind was far, far away. "Yeah."   
  
"You didn't have to kill them." Gregor's voice was still flat, still emotionless. Empty.   
  
After so many months of *wanting* to explain, needing to, the words stumbled out his mouth in a rush. "Some were after Duncan, and thought I'd make a nice stepping stone. Others wanted to make a name for themselves -- killing the 'Highlander's whelp.'" He stopped staring at Gregor's back. With a curse, he threw his arms wide. "God, why am I trying to explain it to you? You've *been* there. You know what's it like, being a student of the mythical Highlander!"   
  
"It doesn't have to rule your life, Rich. It doesn't *make* you a killer...   
  
"I had to finish it. Always. Couldn't leave them at my back. Couldn't let them live to try again."   
  
"You don't know they would...."   
  
"Yes, I do!" Richie spat back. "Damn it, Gregor, I know them. They came after me once, they'd come after me again and again...." His words trailed off into silence. A long pause of stillness.   
  
"How many, Richard?" Gregor's voice was a whisper, sharp and hard when he finally asked.   
  
An angry shrug that no one saw. "I dunno. I never really counted."   
  
"You fucking better know how many god damned heads you've taken since we've been together!"   
  
"Forty...seven." The number forced itself out of his mouth. A sound, almost a sob, followed, covered by the sharp crack as the cup landed on the kitchen counter. Nothing to add, nothing left to say. Just nothing.   
  
Gregor stood up, not taking his eyes from the backyard. Wood fence, grill, all the homey touches that made this place more than just a rest stop. He walked over to his suitcases, opening the door before picking them up. He neared the threshold, leaving, always god-damned leaving. Turning back, only his head, not his body. His body was committed to the painful path. Any direction except toward Richie.   
  


  
  
"I _do_ love you...."   
  
Less final than 'goodbye,' more painful than 'I hate you.' It held no promise, no hope. Only despair and heart-breaking disappointment.   
  
By the time Richie forced himself to look at the entryway, Gregor was gone. The door stood open, letting in the late afternoon breeze. No sound, no hint, like the photographer had never been there at all.   
  
It was dark when he finally managed to dial the phone. The front door still stood open, against the faint hope that Gregor would return -- angry, upset, but unable to leave. The phone rang six times before being picked up at the other end of the continent. "Mac? It's me. I...I screwed up, Mac." Then, only then, did the tears fall.   
  


* * *

  
It had been pathetically easy, Richie thought as he sat in the chair across from his editor, watching the woman read the last chapter of his book. Once Duncan had planned everything out. Make sure Wiles lost his sword, and held Richie's when the cops bust in from MacLeod's anonymous tip. Since Richie always wore gloves when fighting, only Wiles' fingerprints were on the murder weapon. And Richie was only a poor innocent in the wrong place.   
  
Not that Wiles wouldn't scream bloody murder. But a few false entries in American Airline's flight history database, and a phony credit card receipt for Ashe's bastard sword from 'Nash's Antiques' and his protests would fall on deaf ears. Especially since Wellington had helped out by leaving *every* penny of his fortune to Wiles. Opportunity and motive.   
  
Not that any of it would bring Gregor back. No, it only got the cops off *his* trail. And got Wiles off his back as well. For now. Maybe in a few months, he could use Gregor's good name at the Dallas PD and sneak into the evidence room to steal his sword back. Even with a spare, he felt naked without it.   
  
The dragonlady's voice broke into his concentration. "I'm not printing this...this *garbage!*"   
  
Ready for her outburst, Richie smiled. "You do, or I never write another word for this publishing company. I'll go over to Bantam if I have to."   
  
And that's how you deal with that.   
  


* * *

  
**"Please," Caroline cried, falling to her knees at Ricardo's feet. "You must believe me!" Her sobs, mixed with her heavy accent echoed in the dusty barn.  
  
But still the stablehand pulled away, breathing heavy as he tried to control his emotions. Sweat glistened on his chiseled torso, mixed with the tears spilling down his face. He strolled to the door, his booted feet sending little clouds of dust in his wake. He turned back before the door. "I will always love you, Senorita. But I can never trust you again."   
  
He disappeared into the darkness, as Caroline's heartbreaking cry tore into the night. No one answered her shrieks, came to console her trembling, sob-wracked body. He had left her. Alone. "I will *die*, Ricardo," she screamed after him. She collapsed in the hay, her body trembling in misery. "I'll die," she sobbed, her life meaningless without her love.**  
  
"Damn, damn, damn," Gregor cursed as he let the cover close on the paperback. No wonder every woman that read these suddenly rose up in arms. He relaxed against the Jamaican sun, letting the golden rays heat his body. He tried closing his eyes, blocking out that last vision of Richard Ryan, so alone, so fragile as he stood next to the kitchen counter. But even behind the designer sunglasses, he still couldn't escape the life he knew he destroyed. Angry at his own failings, he grabbed the book, hurling it out over the ocean, watching it eventually sink beneath the pounding surf. "Play fair, you bastard!"   
  
But even as he finished his cold beer, he knew he'd already lost the fight.   
  
He wouldn't make it easy, he vowed. Not at all.   
  


* * *

  
  
  
**EPILOGUE**   
_*One year later*_   
  
"5456 Belmont Road," Gregor told the cab driver after the man had stowed his suitcases in the trunk.   
  
The old man turned around, looking back at his passenger. "That's a fair ways away...."   
  
Four twenties shut him up, and got them moving. Gregor opened up his travel bag, pulling out a well-worn paperback, permanently open towards the end. He'd read it often enough to know the prose by heart.   
  
**"You're right, of course," Ricardo admitted, turning back from the large bay windows to look at his master. "I lied to you. Told you what you wanted to hear, played you for a fool."  
  
The stablehand's face was masked of emotion. Only fluttering hands betrayed any nervousness to Count Gregor. Hands that had stroked his flesh like a prized colt. "Tell me now," the Italian count demanded, slapping his riding gloves on the desk. "Tell me it all!"**  
  
The scene that followed covered all the points Gregor would have made, 'Ricardo' answering each of his questions, accepting the blame, admitting the mistakes. It felt eerie, reading the words he realized he would say, hearing the conversation in his mind. Right down to the angry charges and emotional outbursts.   
  
But no matter how realistic and life-like, it still didn't sit well with Gregor. While their reconciliation could have easily played out this way six months ago, he had come to understand some of the blame rested on him. Ricardo made Count Gregorvich a saint, while the lowly stablehand was cast as the unfaithful harlot. Gregor and Richie were equally neither and both.   
  
It hurt to think that Richie might view himself as the sole cause of their disagreement, but the kid probably felt that way. Gregor had failed to acknowledge that Richie _couldn't_ change, any more than he could. That the kid was stuck at a hormonal age of nineteen, needing the excitement, always anxious for a fight. Gregor, Duncan, not even time or all the love in the world would be able to change that. Yet he *forced* the kid to go against his nature -- and then walked away when he fell back to normal.   
  
"We're here," the cabbie called out, breaking the photographer's reverie. Gregor still wasn't sure what to say as the taxi drove off, leaving him with his two suitcase on the driveway.   
  
"In for a penny," he muttered under his breath, squaring his shoulders and marching up the concrete. He stopped a few feet from the door, knowing that the next step would be as irrevocable as ringing the doorbell. He walked forward, then froze. As he felt Richie's presence, he didn't know if he'd be greeted by a drawn sword or just an angry Immortal. He did *not* expect to be bowled over as soon as the front door opened, a lithe young body wrapping arms and legs around him.   
  
"Oh, god, you're home," Richie sobbed in his shoulder, the warmth sinking into Gregor's skin. "I didn't know where you were or what I was going to do...."   
  
"Hush," Gregor begged, turning his head to brush his lips against Richie's cheek. "Shhh. Let your mind catch up, love." As soon as Richie calmed down and his breathing return to normal, he urged the kid back onto his own feet, but still not letting go. Once they were face to face, he added, "better?" When Richie took a breath to begin again, the photographer reached up, placing a finger on the delectable lips, silencing the young Immortal. "Not yet."   
  
Richie looked lost, but nodded anyway. When the finger trailed down his jawline, he breathed "I love you," as if the words accidentally slipped out.   
  
A small smile broke out on Gregor's face. "I know. Just promise me, no matter what, that you'll never lie or keep the truth from me again. Okay?"   
  
"I promise," Richie solemnly agreed. "And I won't...."   
  
Gregor's finger shot up again, silencing the lips as he shook his head. "That's all I want from you. That's all I *should* have asked of you." His eyes burned, and he could see Richie's blue gaze misting up as well. "The rest we'll work out as we need to. And it won't be the unbalanced shit we had before. I was totally wrong to demand so much of you, and I'm sorry."   
  
"Greg," Richie sobbed, the tears falling down his pale cheeks.   
  
The photographer quickly kissed the salty trails. "No, I'm more to blame at how things turned out. I forced you to try and be something you're not. I won't make that mistake again." His fingers brushed Richie's cheeks.   
  
"I never meant to hurt you, and I didn't want to go behind your back but I couldn't tell you and it got to be so easy and...."   
  
Gregor shut the kid up the only way he knew how. Lips to lips, tongues dueling, hands on buttock and back, hardness pressing against hardness. They barely made it inside the front door before hands clutched at clothes and teeth nipped at bare skin and their groans mixed together.   
  
Neither said another word all night.   
  
**The count lifted his lover into his strong arms, carrying the young man up the spiral staircase that dominated his villa's foyer. They came to the foreboding doors of his bedroom, where long ago they first made love. He kicked the doors open, revealing his private sanctuary... _their_ private sanctuary.   
  
"Forever, my love," he breathed as he set the stablehand gently on the large bed, adding a kiss to his heaving torso as his finger groped for his shirt buttons.   
  
"Forever," Ricardo agreed, watching Gregorvich bare his pale flesh inch by inch, until he was naked and crawling on top. And then, behind the heavy velvet bed curtains, they became as one, molding together in blissful harmony.   
  
And they lived happily ever after. Forever.**


End file.
